


Tidal Locking

by Mela_Rotta



Category: Event Horizon (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betaed, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt No Comfort, I took one (1) look at this movie and knew right away I needed to make it my plaything, M/M, Major Character(s) death, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Female Character (Mentioned), Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28528281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mela_Rotta/pseuds/Mela_Rotta
Summary: "Where do you come from, stranger? By what right do you come here and make me feel seen? Even worse, felt. I'm not your creation and yet I feel like I'm been touched, coated in a new skin. No more cold metal but warm flesh. Why don't you treat me like everyone else does? Ask of me just my skills and my needles, my sharp blades, my knowledge of bones and ligaments. That is my duty. That is who I am: an instrument."
Relationships: Dr. William Weir/D.J.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Tidal Locking

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
> This is a work of fan fiction. I do not claim ownership over the characters and I do not make a profit by publishing this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> ***
> 
> The song quoted in this chapter is "The Killing Moon" by Echo & the Bunnymen.  
> *  
> English is not my native language so feel free to point out any mistakes. I'll gladly fix them.  
> *  
> I'd like to thank my best friend Sleepy_Hellfire_Anger for beta-reading the story. Love you <3

_To my friend Riccardo. You deserve it._

"Wouldn't it be wonderful to take a walk on that bright line? Where everything gets stretched to death by immeasurable gravity."

♦ ♦ ♦

D.J. wakes up with a start, gasping for a breath of fresh air that's impossible to get on a spaceship. Here, it always feels stale and heavy, sticking to the skin like a strange piece of clothing, too humid and not warm enough. It's hard to find real warmth in-between faraway, cold-eyed stars. D.J. sometimes wonders why humans fight so hard to dig deeper into the perfect mess that so obviously does not need them, does not even want them.

Not that it matters. He's here just to patch other people up, should the need arise. It usually does not, so when there's nothing else for him to help with, he just scuttles away to MedBay to sort and organize his tools and resources. That's been his routine for the past three years on the _Lewis & Clark_, but now there's something different: there's someone different.

Captain Miller is a no-nonsense man, has probably been like that since birth, and the others just follow in the trail of his pragmatism to the point of forgetting manners. William Weir is... curious. Polite, in a sort of vintage way. He looks like someone from before the first Outer Landing, someone who belongs to Earth and a nice house with a backyard and a couple of cats. He is too enthusiastic to be truly liked by the rest of the crew. He's the new one, he's the stranger.

He's the one with warmth in his eyes whenever he is looking out the windows next to MedBay. That's where he usually can be found, maybe because it is the quietest corner of the _L &C_, and where D.J. finds him when he finally gathers the willpower to get out of his bunk to go and get some breakfast. He almost jumps seeing Weir stand there as still as a salt statue, gaze lost on the sequinned cloth of the sky.

Weir must have noticed him, for he speaks without turning. "Good morning, Doctor."

D.J. blushes with embarrassment at the title. "D.J.'s fine. No need for fancy names."

"Well then, _D.J._ ," Weir smiles, casting him a friendly glance from over his shoulder, "Do you mind if I join you for breakfast? The others are still asleep."

D.J. shrugs, scratching his nape. "I don't mind."

As D.J. whisks the eggs, Weir cooks two patties and warms up some tortillas. D.J. moves to set the table but Weir lifts a hand to stop him.

"Please, allow me. Have a seat."

As if D.J. was a guest. He does not mind though, does not even know if he should. It's pleasant having Weir place down the paper plates and cutlery, serve the scrambled eggs and patties, tortillas on the side, then hand D.J. a cup of hot coffee. D.J. takes a sip and feels his whole body go lax.

"This is great coffee," he says, nursing his cup gratefully as Weir sits down beside him.

"Thank you."

"It's... it's not the same blend Cooper brewed yesterday, is it?"

Weir smiles behind his cup, keeping his eyes fixed on the food. He shakes his head.

"Oh, I see," D.J. grins, "You got your own stash."

"Just 'cause I've spent the majority of my life in space, doesn't mean I'm down for the complete obliteration of my papillae. One should always have one's own stash."

"Mine's cigarettes."

"That's a bit ironic."

They both chuckle and start to dig in without another word. D.J.'s alarm is always set early so that he can have an hour of peace and quiet before Cooper and Smith start prancing around, exchanging their usual rude jokes, but he finds himself enjoying Weir's presence. He assumes half of his enjoyment is caused by the novelty of the whole affair, even though nobody knows exactly _what_ is the affair. _All in good time_ , Miller had said to them fifty-six days earlier, just before Weir boarded the _L &C_.

The other half, he guesses, is caused by the aura of domesticity that Weir exudes: the way he stands, the way he speaks. Quite demure, quite soft. He's gentle in an honest and forward way, almost naive, certainly better than the motherly gentleness that Peters showers Justin with and that D.J. has always thought to be a sad projection of love.

There's no projection in Weir, no formalities: he's as clear as water, eyes bright and friendly when he smiles like he's doing now from over his cup.

"I know what your crew-mates think about me."

D.J. freezes with a forkful of eggs in his mouth. He chews slowly, gaze lowered, then swallows. "They don't like having strangers in their territory."

"What about your territory, then?"

"I don't know," he mumbles, "I don't really care. As long as you don't mess with the morphine, I'm fine with having you around."

"Someone did that before?"

"Yep. Smith almost broke the poor bastard's arm for that."

Weir laughs, and D.J. cannot help but smile in reply.

"Can't say I didn't notice Mr. Smith's... pep. He was a soldier, wasn't he?"

"Back on Earth, yes. Never seen a battlefield, though."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

Weir shrugs, toying with a leftover piece of tortilla. "Where you from."

"I was born in a small village in England, but I grew up in London. I left Earth after graduation and never went back. Got a nice apartment in _Mars Luminaria_ 's third district."

Weir opens his mouth to speak and D.J. braces himself for the dreadful question 'What about your family?'. He sighs when Weir opts for a sip of coffee instead. The man's discretion makes him more curious, however: before he can stop himself, he asks "And you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm from... everywhere. Ireland, New Zealand, USA, and then the Daylight Space Station."

"You ever miss Earth?"

Weir averts his gaze, sky-blue irises lost on the remnants of their meal. D.J. notes the slouch of his shoulders, and his guts clench with guilt for that.

"No. There's nothing left for me there."

 _I know how you feel_ , D.J. thinks but does not dare speak out loud. It sounds stupid and corny and does not do justice to Weir's honesty.

The silence between them now stings with coldness. D.J. is almost relieved to hear the sleepy groans and mumbles of Cooper and Starck, followed by Smith and the rest of the crew as they pull up the shutters and slowly emerge from their bunks.

Weir gets up so quickly that D.J. feels compelled to do the same, snapping to attention like a goddamn nutcracker soldier. Weir looks at him with his eyebrows raised in a silent question, and a wave of heat creeps up D.J.'s neck.

"I'll clear the table," he mutters, just to have an excuse to turn around and hide his face. As he gathers the plates, cutlery, and dirty napkins, he can sense Weir lingering behind him in the small kitchenette.

"Briefing's in two hours."

D.J. does not reply, bins the dirty plates, washes his hands.

"I'll, uh..." Weir pauses, clears his voice, and D.J. is suddenly struck by the realization that Weir's _nervous_. He does not turn around but stops toweling his hands.

"It won't be nice. The truth is, I'm– I'm as much in the dark as all of you. But it's going to change our lives forever, I hope."

D.J. whips around, still gripping the towel. "Why are you telling me this?"

Weir sighs and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. He looks younger. He looks so fragile that D.J. wants to look away and stop witnessing this stranger crack open like an egg and pour out a medley of anxiety and anticipation.

"I don't know, I'm sorry. It's just... I needed to tell someone before the briefing, and you're..."

"I'm what?"

Weir shakes his head. "Never mind. We'll talk later."

Wait, he wants to say. "Alright. See you later."

♦ ♦ ♦

As Cooper and Smith mutter curses, as Starck and Peters whisper pensively, D.J. keeps his mouth shut and his gaze glued to Weir's back as the doctor precedes them to the bridge. The man who has come to drag them to a spaceship that should not exist anymore.

"Now, the USAC couldn't pinpoint the exact location of the ship along the orbit," he says, ignoring the chattering behind him. "So the orders are to use the next three days to follow the last part of the _Event Horizon_ 's original route to Neptune and track her down ourselves."

"And pick up clues," Miller says, more statement than a question. "Anything that could help us understand what happened to the ship."

"That's correct, although I don't expect your crew to find anything. As I told you, the maiden voyage went perfectly smooth."

"Not perfectly," interjects Smith. "We wouldn't be here, otherwise."

Weir does not deign him of a reply. As he starts pushing buttons in the lower bridge console, the others perch on various surfaces between the lower and upper bridge like a bunch of pupils. D.J. decides to settle behind Weir and slightly to the side, in a corner not too far from the doctor.

"We've been unable to verify life contact," Weir says, inserting a disk in a slot, "but TDRS did receive this single transmission."

The screams cut the air so loud that half the crew jumps. Miller looks away.

"What the hell is that?" Smith asks, eyes as big as saucers. In another moment D.J. would have smiled; right now, however, he tries to concentrate on the recording. Weir plays it again, this time the cleaner version supplied by Houston. The human wail that echoes around the room is even worse, if possible. D.J. feels the hair on his neck stand and hugs himself to try and calm down.

Smith exhales. "Jesus."

Miller shakes his head. "Doesn't even sound like a real language. What does Houston think about–"

"It's Latin," D.J. cuts him off before he can bite his tongue. Miller looks at him with his eyebrows raised as if D.J. has just grown another head.

Weir clears his voice and turns around to smile at him. "What does the man say?"

He makes the doctor play the recording again. "Sounds like... _liberate me_ , something like that. I can't make out the rest."

Weir nods. "That's what I thought. 'Save me'."

Cooper frowns. "From what?"

Miller sighs and gets up. "I guess we'll find out. Smith, I want you to stick to the original flight path of the _Event Horizon_ , the doctor will supply you with that. Starck, all scanners ready, if you miss a single scrap of metal I'll have your ass on a plate."

As everyone else sighs and walks away, D.J. lingers just outside the door to listen as Weir tries to talk to Miller, only to be interrupted by the captain.

"Yes, yes, I know you want to feel useful, doctor. Right now, I need you to just sit down in the break room and be out of everyone else's way. This is no pleasure cruise."

A defeated sigh, obviously Weir's. "I understand."

When he hears the sound of steps coming towards the door, D.J. turns around and tries to act natural as the doctor catches up to him. He expects Weir to stop and say something, but the man casts him the briefest of glances before rushing ahead and into a hallway, out of sight. D.J. slows down and then stops. He'd like a smoke, but he's already got a bitter taste on his tongue. No need to add to that.

♦ ♦ ♦

_What's absurd_ , he thinks as he lays awake in his bed in the middle of the night, _is that they're able to sleep_. After hearing that a dead ship is alive, after listening to those screams whose nature felt so wrong... was it desperation, pain, or some sort of urgent pleasure? What was it? Some of the wails sounded like moans, and may God forgive him for even thinking that.

How can they sleep? Yes, they've all seen their fair share of corpses and tragedies, but this is different. There's a ship hidden somewhere in the cold emptiness, still far, and yet D.J. can hear its call, the beat of its metal heart echoing faintly in the sky. He's tried talking about the recording with Smith and Justin, but they would not listen. He didn't ask the others: Cooper's too much of a prick, Peters does not need more stress, and Starck is just... straight as a sword. She'd tell him to drink a cup of tea or something. And Miller is out of the question, period. He can hear his raspy snoring even through the shutters and tries focusing on its steady rhythm to find a sleep that will not come. What he finds, however, is another sound: the light patter of naked feet moving away from the crew quarters.

He waits until it has completely faded and then sits up and slowly, ever so slowly opens the shutter. The light system has switched off for the night, leaving only the red floor-level emergency lights to illuminate the _L &C_. The heating system is off too, to save on fuel, and D.J. has to drape himself in the blanket before getting up and out of the room. He's not surprised to find Weir sitting alone at the break room table, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a pile of files and documents scattered in front of him.

When D.J. gently knocks on the wall, the doctor looks up.

"What are you doing here?"

D.J. smirks and goes to sit beside him. "I could ask you the same. Are those...?"

"Yes, the reports from the ship before her disappearance. I was, well. I was studying them."

"Found anything new?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I keep telling myself there _must_ be something, but there isn't. I made no mistakes." Weir exhales and rubs his face with both hands, then picks up his mug and frowns at it, finding it empty. As he gets up to fill it again, D.J. reaches over the table to steal a cigarette from Smith's forgotten pack.

"Do you mind?"

Weir shakes his head and puts a second mug in front of him. "Not at all."

The brand is cheap and the cigarette tastes like it, but D.J. enjoys it all the same, puffing rings of smoke like a lazy dragon, while Weir beside him quietly mutters and thumbs through pages and pages of data. Between the ice-white light of the table lamp and the red lights from the hallway, his irises look more indigo than sky-blue. D.J. watches as the doctor chews on a pencil, bites his lip, reads aloud strings of numbers and equations like some kind of magic spell. And isn't it a work of magic, after all?

 _This is a glimpse of the real Weir_ , D.J. ponders, then realizes it's happened earlier when Weir had said 'I built it' so easily, like a child in a game of make-believe. But it's not a game, it's the reality: somewhere around Neptune, the spawn of this shy creator sleeps and dreams, archived in the collective memory as a simple, sad fact – something that happened and will never happen again – and yet the man who birthed it still craves for her, still proudly claims her despite the ruin that befell his reputation seven years ago.

"I still can't believe you built it."

Weir stops chewing the pencil, taps it against his chin. "Sometimes even I can't believe it. Sometimes I think..." he pauses, trying to find the words. "I think it's all been a dream, or..."

"A nightmare?"

The way Weir flinches makes D.J. immediately regret saying it; he looks away and grabs another cigarette, but Weir's stare burns his skin.

"No. _No_. Never a nightmare."

"I didn't mean–" D.J. tries to say, but he shuts up when Weir slams the pencil on the table.

"No, listen!" he hisses, trying to keep his volume down so as not to wake the others, but his voice shakes with anger. "I know what everyone on this ship and in the whole fuckin' solar system thinks! I know what they say about me and I know what I should say to make them stop treating me like a lunatic. 'The _Event Horizon_ was a mistake and I regret it', yes, oh how they'd love for me to admit it! How they'd love it!"

He laughs, and it's piercing and breathless at the same time. D.J. has never heard a sadder laugh.

"But I don't regret it. I gave everything I could to build her and then I gave more, and she was... _beautiful_. My beautiful, perfect cross in the sky."

Emptied of the surge, he leans back into his chair and looks at the pencil in his hands. It's snapped in two. He drops the pieces on the table.

"Doctor..."

"Don't you 'doctor' me, D.J., you sound like Miller."

" _Weir_ , then," he tries again, stabbing the cigarette into the ashtray. "I'm sorry. I know I can't possibly understand how you feel, but I'm trying. And I'm sure that slaving away at a mountain of files in the middle of the night can't be good for you. There's no answer to be found there, and you know it."

Weir crosses his arms over his chest and breathes out. "I can't sleep." Then, as an afterthought: "It's cold."

Rolling his eyes, D.J. drags his chair next to Weir. "Of course it's cold, you're in a T-shirt."

The doctor does not comment nor pulls away as D.J. arranges the blanket to cover them both, he just hums approvingly and leans against the other man, shoulders flush against each other. D.J. lights up another cigarette but Weir immediately reaches out to his mouth and steals it; D.J.'s breath catches in his throat as those cold fingers brush his lips.

Weir takes a short drag, coughs, then a longer one. He opens his mouth, lets the smoke escape in sluggish swirls, slow-motion flames.

"She's close," he whispers, making the smoke shiver and ripple. "You feel her, don't you?"

"Yes," D.J. says softly, almost slurring the words. His body is light, detached from the ground, and firmly anchored to the doctor with no space left for anything else. "I feel her."

"I made her to be felt. To be always remembered and loved, the first step of a new dream for the human race... I forgot how ungrateful humanity can be."

Cigarette still hanging from his lips, he untangles himself from the blanket and starts gathering the scattered papers.

"You know Prometheus, Weir?"

The doctor turns around, holding an armful of folders against his chest, one eyebrow cocked. "The Titan who stole from the gods for the love of humanity."

"And for that, he was punished. But the humans were grateful."

Weir smirks, no glint of amusement in his eyes. "They never tried to break him free."

"Heracles–"

"Heracles was a demigod, and he had Zeus' blessing. I, on the other hand, still have to endure disdain and mistrust every day and everywhere, no matter how far from Earth I go. Do you see gods out there? I don't. It's not the gods who keep punishing me."

"It's not me either!" D.J. snaps, getting up so abruptly that the knocks over the cups, spilling leftover coffee on the table.

Weir sighs. "Yes, you've been kind to me. Don't think I haven't noticed, it's... it's hard not to notice you, even when you play the wallflower part."

D.J. is so taken aback that he gives a bark of laughter and drops into his chair. There's a long stretch of silence punctuated only by the dripping of the coffee before Weir puts the papers on a shelf nearby and grabs some napkins. D.J. watches him as he starts blotting the table and when the napkins are soaked, D.J. gets up to grab some more. They do not speak as they both kneel to clean the bigger mess on the floor, but every time their hands brush D.J.'s stomach clenches tight with the need to reach out and touch his arm, his shoulder, say 'I'm sorry' even if he does not have anything to be sorry about. Anything just to close the ugly parenthesis of the conversation now weighing on their backs and breathing between them, a quiet ghost they both pretend not to see.

When there are no stains left, Weir retrieves the papers and D.J. filches the pack of cigarettes. They go back to their bunks and pull down the shutters, keep pretending till the next illusion of morning comes.

♦ ♦ ♦

Of course Weir's right. Starck sits all day glued to the chair and she comes into the break room for dinner with nothing in her hands except for the coordinates of the ship's actual location. Everyone else seems disappointed, except Weir. He eats in complete silence, politely asks Peters to pass him the salt, pours water for Justin who's sitting by his right side. Carefully avoids looking at D.J., who's sitting by his left. D.J. chews mechanically the rubbery steak and the lukewarm green beans, but he cannot ignore the cold wave of silence between the doctor and himself. He's never been one for small talk, but now he just wants Weir to talk to him, acknowledge his presence, at least out of politeness.

_Ask me what I'm gonna spend my next paycheck on. Ask me how I'm doing. Ask me what I think about our mission and the Even Horizon. She became alive in my mind the moment you called her beautiful, your eyes shine when you talk about her. You love her, don't you? You love her. Tell me more._

Miller's deep voice makes him snap back to reality. "Everything alright, D.J.?"

He looks up from his plate and notices that the others are all done eating. He still has half a steak on his plate, grayish-pink and uninviting. He prods at it with his fork and forces a smile. "Yeah. I'm just not that hungry."

Smith throws a cigarette into his lap and winks. "You don't mind cleaning up, right? I'm so tired."

"We all are," Cooper joins in, adding another cigarette to the bribe.

Just as Miller is about to speak up and reprimand them, D.J. nods and stabs the piece of meat. "Yeah, no problem."

As soon as he's alone he puts down the fork and reaches into his hoodie pocket to grab a small MP3 player; he puts on the earbuds and cranks up the volume, up enough to drown the grating whispers in the back of his head, ( _he won't tell you more, he won't sing of her beauty to you anymore, you fucked up_ ).

And it works: he focuses on gathering the plates and napkins, the paper cups filled to the brim with cigarette butts, a couple of sticky Snickers wrappers. He dumps it all in the incinerator chute, then sprays a cloth with a mixture of vinegar and water to thoroughly clean the table. This is what he's good at: doing what he's told, keeping things in check, everything perfect as if he's never touched it. Leave no traces behind.

When he turns off the light he's satisfied but still not tired enough to go to sleep: he walks through the red-lit hallways towards MedBay, absentmindedly running his fingertips along the bundles of cables and switches. The low hum of the main engines echoes through the smooth metal plates and the plastic panels covering the walls all around D.J. faint whirring beneath the floor.

The windows next to MedBay frame an empty sky, just blackness and a sprinkle of stars, blinking and blind. He sits on the bench under the windows and leans sideways against the wall, gaze lost on those faraway eyes. The day after tomorrow they'll reach Neptune, its blue disk already visible in the distance, quiet and waiting.

He does not turn around when a hand lays on his shoulder. Slowly, he removes an earbud and murmurs, "Yes?"

"Can I sit with you?"

He does not even pretend to hesitate. "Sure."

Weir is still in the navy-blue overalls, radiation badge hooked to a belt loop.

"Shit," D.J. mutters, fishing the handheld scanner from his pocket. "I forgot to check you."

He bends forward to scan the lithium fluoride bar, but as the tool is beeping he looks up and meets Weir's eyes. They're so close that he can smell the doctor's aftershave, its lemony aroma so alien among the scents of copper and grease.

Weir's voice is barely a whisper when he speaks. "I'm sorry."

D.J. looks at the scanner as it beeps one last time. "Still below 1500 millirems, good. And apology accepted."

They both turn to the windows, their eyes reflecting the nuclear shinings exploding billions of light-years away, ancient flowers unfolding in pastel red, yellow, blue.

D.J. smiles, nostalgia aching in his chest. "I spend so much time in space, I forget how beautiful they can be."

Weir chuckles softly, no mockery in his tone. "Ah, forgetfulness. The common human flaw. What's your favorite?"

"What, star?"

"Yes. Star, constellation, nebula. Or planet perhaps? I know you're a medical doctor, but I was thinking that maybe–"

"Martian sunset."

Weir quirks an eyebrow in silent question. D.J. looks down at his hands, spins the thick silver ring around his left index till he finds the engraving: three dots, one big and two small. He bends his hand to show it to the doctor. "My sister Jesse had it made for me when I got into med school."

"It's Mars and its two moons, right?"

"Yes, Phobos and Deimos. I remember one time, I was about six or seven and I kept pestering Jesse to play with me but she had homework to do, she had to watch a documentary about Mars and write a short assignment about it. She was already in high school, you know. Anyway, instead of throwing me out of her room, she sat me on her lap and we watched the documentary together. And I... I..."

"Fell in love."

"Madly. Of course, by the time I became a doctor _Mars Luminaria_ and _Neo Ortus_ had already been built, but the desert outside was just like I'd always imagined it. And those blue sunsets," He exhales, fumbles into his pocket for the cigarettes. "It's like..."

_Like watching the sun cry._

He smiles at his own absurdity and turns his back to the windows. "Fancy a smoke?"

"Why not."

"How come you always refuse when it's Cooper offering?"

Weir laughs, eyes creasing in amusement as he brings the cigarette to his lips. "You've just answered yourself."

Rolling his eyes, D.J. lights him up. "Alright, I get it, my brand is better."

"That, and the fact that I don't like Mr. Cooper, nor Mr. Cooper likes me."

"Yeah, well. We can't be liked by everyone–" D.J. stops at a sudden thought, squints at Weir. "When I offered you a smoke before I put you in stasis, you refused."

The doctor does not even blink. "I did."

"But now–"

"Now I know you," Weir says with a shrug, smoke veiling his eyes for a moment.

D.J. looks away, a mellow wave of embarrassment snaking along his spine and neck. More to himself than to Weir, he murmurs, "It's not like we're friends."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No. I like the company."

"The feeling is mutual," Weir says between two puffs of smoke. "You're intriguing."

D.J. smirks. "Liar."

"I know it sounds phony, but you are." The doctor pauses, bites his lip for a moment as if he's trying to understand his own words. "The way you look at the stars is... You look at them with the eyes of someone who never forgets how small he is, how small we all are compared to them. There's humility in that, and do you know how rare that is? I've spent thirty years working with bastards so full of pride and arrogance that it made me sick." He takes a last drag on the cigarette, ash raining on his lap. "And then there's you. Still dreaming about Mars even after touching it. Still looking at the stars as if we're never going to reach them."

He lets the spent stick fall to the ground, steps on it. Only then D.J. lets out a breath he did not even know he was holding.

"Christ, Weir."

"Does it bother you?"

"No! No, it's just that... no one's ever told me anything like that."

The doctor hums and scratches his jaw. "I'm sorry. Most of the time I prefer keeping quiet, but... I don't know. I felt like I needed to tell you."

D.J. wishes he had the perfect answer. He wishes he could vanish, or crack his head open against the wall and look inside, understand the jumbled sensation that's resting hot and trembling on the tip of his tongue.

Where do you come from, stranger? By what right do you come here and make me feel seen? Even worse, _felt_. I'm not your creation and yet I feel like I'm been touched, coated in a new skin. No more cold metal but warm flesh. Why don't you treat me like everyone else does? Ask of me just my skills and my needles, my sharp blades, my knowledge of bones and ligaments. That is my duty. That is who I am: an instrument.

Weir tilts his head, a hint of worry in his eyes. "D.J.?"

"Sorry, lost in thought."

"How about I fix us some coffee?"

"No." He picks up the hanging earbud, turns it around in his palm. He scoots closer to the doctor till their shoulders touch and hands it to him. "I want to stay here."

Weir puts it on with a slight nod followed by a smile. "Oh, gods. It's been ages since I listened to this song."

D.J. smiles back at him and closes his eyes, leaning back to rest his head against the cool window glass. The contact sends a shiver along his back but it is soon canceled by Weir's warmth, solid and still along his right arm, pulling gently at D.J.'s body.

" _Under blue moon, I saw you,_ " D.J. sings under his breath, slightly out of tune. " _S_ _o soon you'll take me..._ "

Weir shifts slightly by his side and then it's not only their shoulders touching but also their hips, in a twin heat exchange that threatens to scorch D.J. even through the clothes, and he's suddenly struck by the blurry scraps of youth memories, half-hearted kisses and awkward fumblings in the backseats of cars, twice or thrice at best, his hands never confident enough, never greedy enough, ready to perform a duty but nothing else, no voice to talk dirty thoughts, no words to ask for a connection, something more than a one night love... and now there's Weir beside him and D.J. feels like a part of himself has been pried open by the doctor's clear eyes and friendly smiles.

( _No, no: snapped broken, mirror shattered and lies scattered._ )

It's humiliating to be reminded of his low human nature, of the animal weight of his need for affection. Where do you come from, stranger, yes.

He opens his eyes and realizes Weir is looking at him, head tilted to the side. His eyes sparkle with the reflection of starlight. "How come that the creepiest songs are always the most beautiful?"

He finds himself leaning towards the doctor and immediately stops. He decides to light up the remaining cigarette, takes a sharp drag. Weir watches every movement, patiently waiting for an answer.

D.J. exhales a cloud of smoke. "Well, death can be fascinating. I mean, think about space: all those black holes and explosions and the whole hard vacuum thing in-between. It's pretty terrifying and yet we do whatever we can to delve deeper into it."

Weir clenches his jaw. "No matter the cost."

A question wells up in D.J.'s throat and he lets it out in a murmur: "What did it cost you?"

"Twenty years," Weir sighs, "and my marriage."

D.J. has no reply for that. He still remembers the news about that sad, messy suicide, a couple of years earlier. The rumors and the cruel jokes that went around for weeks after that.

Weir grabs the cigarette from D.J.'s hand and sucks down on it, making it glow like a star itself, low spectral class. D.J. lets him finish it, grateful for the puffs of smoke clouding the distance between them, the static sound of Weir's breathing over the faint buzz of music.

The doctor presses the spent stick against the side of the bench and flicks it off somewhere in the half-darkness of the hallway. "I guess I loved the _Event Horizon_ more than I loved my wife."

The words hang heavy in mid-air, and D.J. has to look away from that whispered ghost trying to drag him away from Weir and back to the ground. He starts chewing on his bottom lip as he racks his brain for an appropriate answer, but everything sounds so goddamn stupid. And what does not, he is not ready to say out loud. He just wants to be closer, closer, _you see me and you see what I see, and it's been so long. My Jesse, sweet Jesse, she's too far away and you are here, oh dear stranger by my side, why are you here? I know how you feel, I–_

All of a sudden, Weir's hand is on his shoulder and he flinches, looks up.

The doctor stares at him with wide eyes, mouth agape. "You're bleeding..."

D.J. barely has the time to register the taste of copper, before Weir brings a hand to his face.

He traces his thumb over D.J.'s lip, smearing the few drops of blood as if to paint his mouth. The sting of his cold digit on the throbbing flesh is enough to make D.J. shudder, and when Weir pulls his hand backward D.J. bends forward to chase after it. He does not expect Weir to let him, but the doctor stops and gently cups his chin.

"Am I making you nervous?" he asks as if his fingers weren't trembling against D.J.'s skin.

D.J. replies by leaning deeper into the touch, so close to Weir now that their breaths intertwine like vines, their twisted warmth brushing his mouth so sweetly his head swims. ( _This is not who you are, you've never felt so much need for another person, another body. Why the stranger? This is not who you are._ )

Blood thrumming in his ears, sliding down his spine to pool into his belly, an ache, and the whirring of the engines and something lower, a deeper metal moaning. The sleeping beast across the sky. She grabs hold of his guts, relaxes her grip, then tightens it again and he has to take a breath, heart drumming against his ribcage so loudly it's a wonder Weir does not hear it, as he trails a finger up to D.J.'s mouth and pulls on his bloodied lip. "Gods, you're..."

D.J. leans closer and kisses him.

Weir's lips are thin and almost as cold as his fingers, and when D.J. pulls back his mouth burns as if he's just kissed dry ice.

"Christ," he exhales, looking away. "I'm sorry, I'm–"

" _Stop_ ," Weir hisses, placing a hand around his neck. " _Stop_ saying that."

D.J. opens his mouth to protest but Weir's quicker: their lips crash together, teeth scraping as their mouths adjust to each other, D.J. tilts his head and lets Weir in with a low moan; Weir thrusts into his mouth with his tongue and it's warm, so warm, D.J. runs both hands through the doctor's hair and pulls him closer, even closer when Weir's hands slide down to his hips and grasp so tight that D.J. yelps. Weir dips his head to sniff at his neck, lay wet kisses along his windpipe, and then a bite.

" _Fuck_ ," D.J. mewls, the stinging pain sending another wave of heat to his groin; he grabs the doctor's chin and bites his lips in return, eliciting a low groan that makes him shiver. Weir tugs at his waistband, eyes fixed onto his still-bleeding mouth.

"Come here."

D.J. braces himself with one hand against the wall as he straddles the doctor, letting out a shaky sigh when he feels Weir's half-erected cock press to his inner thigh: he gives a tentative roll of his hips and the doctor gasps and bucks to get more friction. D.J. leans into him full weight and they kiss again, filling the air with the wet sounds of their tongues, the rustle of clothing as Weir starts unbuttoning D.J.'s shirt.

( _This is not who you are and it feels so much better, so much..._ )

The intercom goes off with a hiss of static, making them jump.

"D.J., you there in MedBay?" Cooper asks, annoyance slurring his voice. "Baby Bear here gave himself a nosebleed playing catch."

" _You_ gave me a nosebleed!" Justin pipes up in the background.

"Shut up and hold that ice. Anyway, he says his nose is broken, _I_ say he's full of shit, but can you please come and check him? ...Hey? Hello? _Helloooo_?”

Weir buries his face in D.J.'s neck and gives a quick squeeze to his thighs before letting go. Groaning, D.J. climbs off the doctor's lap and rushes to the terminal.

"I'm here. Gimme a minute."

"Thanks. D'you hear that, crybaby? Now stop complaining."

D.J. closes the call before Justin can reply, but he finds no relief in the silence that falls afterward. He buttons his shirt up and sighs. "I have to go."

He hears Weir's footsteps as he stands up. "Yes. Ok."

D.J. feels cold, now that their bodies are separated once again. He wants to go back, he wants to turn around and pull the doctor close to him, let him see his skin, his scar, renew the phantom heat of lips and hands still fluttering over his body, but the moment's passed and he feels the uncertainty in Weir's voice.

What a stupid mistake.

"Listen, D.J., I..."

"Goodnight, Weir."

He does not look up as he walks past the doctor.

He just hopes that the others won't notice the bitter traces left by Weir on his lips.

♦ ♦ ♦


End file.
